Didn't See No Ferry

Today was intended to be a huge, productive study and schoolwork Sunday. My friends offered some relaxing alternatives. Elizabeth and I went to the Steeple Church in Dundee. The church is 822 years old and still going. Around 85% of the constituents were children when the first stone was laid. The message as far as I could discern was that leadership is lonely so be accepting of all people, so standard Episcopalian mantra. Perhaps.

Mark and I then lifted. My shoulders were sore, sore from swimming the other day. Gosh it was so nice swimming with Marcel. The water at this pool has a reasonable temperature, unlike the ice water at Turner Center. I got yelled at by a huge (fat) bearded lifeguard for wearing my shoes on the pool deck. The British and Dundee school people are real sticklers on rules.

After the lift we bused over to Broughty Ferry which insures that I will have traveled somewhere every weekend since I got here and for the rest of the time. The temperature was in the low 60s and windy, but we have been conditioned to celebrate like it was the first day of summer. The beach was pleasant with tan sand and straw scattered about. I put my feet in the chill water just to say I did. We did pretty much nothing but lay down. My crew was Marcel, Gretta, Mark, Leoni, and Michael. I took two pictures of myself, as seen below. I was giddy, silly happy to be chilling out. I can look quite foolish.

We ended the day with some ice cream and Guinness. Boomshakalaka.

Dublin Holiday, Pt. 1

This past weekend, I traveled outside of Scotland for the first time this semester. The occasion: the famous St. Patricks Day in the city of the said saint, Dublin, Ireland. I flew in from Edinburgh early Friday the 16th. My first experience with Ryanair was terrible. The stewardess wouldn't let me keep my window shade down and we landed like a roller coaster falling off the last loop with a sideways skid. Needless to say, I got off the plane. Once in the Dublin Airport, I got four 50 Euro bills which were comic in comparison to the expensive pounds and sedate dollars. I translated the lack of respect by spending a general abandon.

I was lucky to find Trinity College right away. The old university created a calm within the heart of the city. Cathedrals and universities have that power. I toured the university in a Irish drizzle. The guide apologized for the rain and my fellow tourists sighed at the wetness. But when you have a rain jacket, it should be no bother. I enjoyed the 'authentic' weather. A long time sacred site for me was located within the library of Trinity to my great surprise. For almost four hundred years, the ancient illuminated manuscript of the Gospels, the Book of Kells has been kept in Dublin. The vellum Bible originated from the 8th century from a Scottish monastery. The detail of the Bible's aesthetics were the primary reason for awe; however, I found the awe highly appropriate, considering the true content.

I lightly toured with my pictured friends the city. (They made me eat a Pizza Hut buffet-gross!) St. Patricks Cathedral was impressive for the same and the slate coloured stones which fit my notions of Ireland and the rainy day perfectly. A certain descendent of Mr. Guinness was given a statue. I'm sure he was a great man. Dublin Castle was more of a 18th century stately home. Currently it is the wine-and-dine place for notable guests of Ireland and the government. We experienced the exploitation of the Irish by the British viceroy's opulence. Over here, rarely is anything stunningly beautiful and lavish is without a dark underside. The Irish were particularly incensed by symbols. Notice how Lady Justice has her back turned to the city, has unbalanced scales in the rain, and has no blindfold. One painting here show St. Patrick bringing the fire of knowledge and faith to the native Irish. Another shows a King George with elegant Lady Britannia to his right and the wild, buxom Irish Lady to his right.

That afternoon we ate at a quaint tart place dubbed "Queen of Tarts where I ordered and devoured a delicious cappuccino and raspberry crumble. We ate dinner back at my new German friend Sarah's, pre-gamed with cheap Budweiser (see what my foreign friends made me do this weekend!), and clubbed late in Dublin. Guinness is hardly a party beer, but you know you only hit Dublin a few times, ya know?

Well therein lies day one of my Dublin venture. St. Patricks Day will follow.

Weather Report

Tonight, I did not have the 6 p.m. missing Thacker Mountain Radio blues like most Thursdays. I had a ticket to the Scottish National Jazz Orchestra season opening concert at Caird Hall. The two and a half hours of the late 70s jazz band Weather Report arrangements glided by like the last long sip of a chocolate frosty. The former WR drummer Peter Erskine came to play with the orchestra. I get more enjoyment out of watching a balding, silver bearded 65 year old jammer than almost anything. I still balk at getting old, but now I'm just trying to figure out how to be a debonair grandfather. On a related note, I sat by a nice old lady with a young blonde lab seeing eye dog. God bless seeing eye dog trainers.

1st Go Round Edinburgh

For my first Edinburgh trip, I'd like to give a shout out to Ben Hewitt. I was so glad to hear "y'all" again. What reminiscing could be better than discussing at the Jazz Bar over some pints the sacrifice we made to miss Proud Larrys for a semester. Tribute to you Davis; we both missed ya.

Brief highlights of Edinburgh: a Sunday morning service at St. Giles Cathedral, four coffees at J.K. Rowling's favorite haunt, the Elephant Room, the monumental Benjamin West painting for Scotland, climbing up the 287 steps of the Sir Walter Scott monument, clubbing with hip thirty year olds at LuLu's, and hiking up Arthur's Seat and seeing Edinburgh in panorama view.

So as one can see, I have never practiced brevity.

Onto the Picture Recap.

Guinness, Guys, and God

Today, I had a truly Scottish university afternoon. Let me elaborate. I had told my colourful friend Xander to meet me at the Art Bar for a pint or two -hence two- after class today. At the bar our numbers grew to six aspiring historians, English majors, and philosophers. After a deep sip of beer under the coffee and creme colored foam, I joined in the stories, exaggerations, philosophizing, and dreams. We talked of Mississippi blues and Smoky Mountain Tennessee. We talked of the trials and tribulations involved in cruise ships, lifeguarding, and gardening. We had a good rehashing of several movies ranging from Half Baked to Alien. We bemoaned grades and praised university life. As the afternoon waned, the thoughts turned to parents then Catholic schools, and then God and Christianity. The conversation was thoughtful, careful even. Stumbling blocks to my friends were not just social norms. Creationism and authorship were a puzzle of an equation that did not balance to some of the guys. The self-described atheists were not confrontational. Instead, there was a wistful glumness about the conclusions. Perhaps for the first time, I learned what it means to not have hope. There was no triumphal pride, just a grim acknowledgement of reason. Xander and I did our best to give the reason for the hope we had; however, we made a mistake. We could not win the unresolved conflicting questions, because faith is not valid proof to someone outside yourself. We should have just said, "You know it is just about Jesus."

Until another day.

I'm Eating Salmon

I am sorry blog for neglecting you. You knew I went to Edinburgh a few weekends ago, having the time of my life. You found out via facebook or maybe a victory tweet. I apologize. As a person who has been dumped three times by text messages (multi-page of course), at least, I should have known better. To pacify you, let me talk like a wanna-be hipster. Facebook is too mainstream. Twitter is only worthy because it is a personal news feed and a platform for heckling @Forward_Rebels and @newtgingrich. I'm so over retweets. Okay the last two sentences were blatant, non hipster lies, but I'm in stream of consciousness mode. Tell me a better justification for poor writing from a poor writer. Virginia Wolffe, my woman. Anyway, to provide some vindication, I average a sent text message every two days. Small wonder my fingers twitch.

Since I get to write for "Ole Miss Abroad Bloggers" !...!, I am going to have to use some greater liberty on this one. So I feel like going in to journal mode with digressions. Today, I woke up in a funk. I blame it on a delightful previous evening of sippin' rose wine, which tasted like strawberry hi-C, and reading a collage of The Atlantic and The Economist web articles, poetry of William Butler Yeats, and my Bible. Some mornings are Monday mornings even if it is Tuesday. On Tuesday I finish class at 5. I am starting to think that is ideal because the rush from getting finally done at 5 is the equivalent of a classes canceled on Friday email. Between classes, I started to put together a resume for this bioethics fellowship for this summer. Creating a resume is frustrating for a honest person. The things you are most proud of sound wordy or seem to shine like dusty gravel on the page. The bull activities you put down as space fillers (Big Event) shame you. I really would like to know if someone read it. Also, I really wish you could read rec letters. Assuming you are wise about whom you get to write the letter, a complimentary letter's vindication would just make your month. Instead, the rec letters are read by a stranger who recognizes the wording but not the student's name from the last letter he got from that person. I worked out to Maylene & the Sons of Disaster. Maylene, I've never forgotten my first mosh pit or that bleach blonde girl with the circular nose ring. Middle school was a great thing. Stop, stop, stop. Nostalgia starts with N-O. I'm hoping to talk to my cousin Bill tonight on Skype. We may be planning some spring break activities. Skint night is tonight. Skint means broke in Scottish vernacular. I will never understand Tuesday being the night to go out.

But hey, I'm on vacation.

North to Nairn

So you want to go north to the beach in February, Neal, to see the winter sea. Did you need to pack any long underwear? Of course you thought not. As a six weeks veteran traveler of Scotland, such precautions were for the weak. Thus, Scotland brought along the fierce wind gusts, the largest snow flakes you had ever seen. Your skinny legs froze with only a damp pair of corduroys to protect you. You even dragged Marcel along for the ride.

The train ride was fantastic as the Scot-rail car meandered through the heart of the empty highlands.

But seriously Nairn was [insert synonym of choice for amazing]. Ehm, sensational, yes.

The almost tawny sand of the Nairn coastline was sprinkled within minutes with snow like a Cafe du Monde beignet's powder sugar after a mighty sneeze. If you get your mind right, you have to admit that you rarely feel more spry and alive than facing snowy, saltwater wind. I felt like no sensible person would be gallivanting down the coastline, so the enjoyment was tripled. I did not see a snow shark though. Ravens battled the wind. Ravenclaw seems more suitable to me daily. The bike tire has to be a metaphor. I'll expound on it someday, if I ever get that epiphany.

Marcel and I went to Inverness after some pub fare and hot tea. We decided not to immediately set out for Loch Ness, to our chagrin. We walked around Inverness. The capital of the Highlands, let me tell you, we have down pat. We saw the Flora MacDonald statue, a fake Nessie, and famous-ish Pict era wolf stone. Inverness offered some great views of the River Ness and some Ness Islands to walk around. The river moves very quickly. A rescue in the cold current seems unlikely. Nessie can do some fast wind sprints, I have no doubt.

A day was well lived. I can ask for little more.